


Clear-air Turbulence

by Bekaylo



Series: Arezzo [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bathroom Sex, Commercial Flight, Dude Wipes, Friends With Benefits, HYDRA Husbands, Homophobic Language, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mild Blood, Mile High Club, Oral Sex, brock rumlow's fragile masculinity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-20
Updated: 2015-10-20
Packaged: 2018-04-27 05:39:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5035933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bekaylo/pseuds/Bekaylo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It had been Jack’s idea for them to go on vacation together, just the two of them. The weather would be good, there was the kind of food he liked, lots of wine, and it was a break.<br/>Perhaps it served Jack right that Brock was being perverse and ungrateful and irritating on the flight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clear-air Turbulence

**Author's Note:**

  * For [iainkillsrobots (prozacplease)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/prozacplease/gifts).



> Many thanks to iainkillsrobots (LittleAntichrist) for her much appreciated editing services. I can’t thank her enough for taking the time to read through this and provide corrections, suggestions, refinements and heart-warming commentary. Plus undertake what amounted to translation from UK to US English.

Jack Rollins breathed out slowly and eased as far as he could back into the airline seat. He had to resist the urge to tilt back onto the now sleeping but formerly screaming toddler behind him. At six feet three inches tall, he was already resigned to a sharp ache in his bent knees from the limited space in economy class. He had endured worse things before and focused on relaxing his top half and his mind. He should have no problems napping for several hours of a flight from Washington DC to Arezzo in Tuscany, Italy.  
“…what the fuck?”  
An offended huff came from his left and a loud disapproving tut from the mother of the toddler behind. The child was quiet now, but the sounds to the left came from a persistent distraction he couldn't ignore for long. Brock Rumlow, beside him in the window seat he had insisted on (along with a long list of demands in return for coming on vacation with Jack), had just managed to spill his complimentary drink and make his food shelf retract into the seat in front of him.  
There were a lot of things Jack could switch off from, but Brock was not one of them. This was something he had learned some ten years ago and it was simultaneously the bane of his existence and the greatest thing that had ever happened to him. Currently it was rather irritating, however. Jack might be tall and uncomfortable, but he endured. Brock had been determined to highlight the cramped, noisy discomfort the cheap coach flight would inflict from the moment he stepped on the plane.

It had been Jack’s idea for them to go on vacation together, just the two of them. Brock’s grandmother had died six months previously and Jack partly wanted to do something nice for Brock because of it.

Jack had thought perhaps now was the time to get Brock away from the day to day SHIELD/Hydra dirty dangerous macho culture of their lives and reach out to him. Jack felt slightly opportunistic, but persuading Brock that going to the Tuscan city of Arezzo where his Nona had been born and lived until she was four years old might be interesting and fulfilling for him. The weather would be good, there was the kind of food he liked, lots of wine, and it was a break.  
Perhaps it served Jack right that Brock was being perverse and ungrateful and irritating on the flight. But really, he had no reason to be. What was he afraid of? It wasn't like he hadn't been alone with Jack before and it was hardly like he should be bothered by the possibly of Jack seducing him or something. That had happened long ago and they had been fuck buddies for years.  
Maybe Brock knew what Jack was really up to, but as usual, neither was saying anything directly to the other.

 

“Can’t take you anywhere,” remarked Jack, cracking open an eye and noting the drink had spilled on Brock’s shirt and jeans.He smirked very slightly.

Brock brushed at the embarrassing damp patch and worked his jaw in irritation. “Fuck you,” he gritted at Jack.  
The woman behind tutted more loudly.  
Brock moved into a stooped, bent kneed standing position. “I'm going to the bathroom,” he hissed.  
“Okay,” said Jack.  
There was a pause and Brock tapped Jack’s bent leg. “You need to move,” he informed Jack.  
Jack opened both eyes and frowned, suddenly realising that he was going to have to get up and move into the aisle to let Brock out. He considered making Brock climb over his bent legs, but this was a public plane flight and not worth the swearing and possible need to contain Brock’s tendency to physical violence. It might not be the end of the world being banned from this airline for that kind of display, but it wouldn't be worth the trouble back home if they drew that much attention to themselves, even in their free time.  
“What d’you need the bathroom for?” asked Jack, quietly and reasonably.  
Brock glared at him. “…do something about this,” he muttered, acutely aware of how close everyone was to everyone else and the lack of privacy.  
It seemed to really bother him more than Jack, who genuinely needed to not be cooped up with people a lot of the time. But Jack had learned to deal with it because of his occupation. Years of communal changing and showering and barracks lifestyles had given Jack the ability to cope with the cramped conditions of a cheap commercial flight. Something was really bothering Brock. He was stressed, it seemed.  
Jack always knew how to de-stress him, even if he often didn't know the reason for his agitation. Jack decided to de-stress Brock and get some peace for the rest of the flight.

 

He unfolded himself upright in the narrow standing space, stretching up and towering over the still crouched Brock to reach the hand baggage shelf.  
Brock, face to zipper with Jack’s crotch for an instant, pulled himself more upright only to be in still very close proximity to his chest. He did not want to be in either situation in a public place, just in case someone might notice certain reactions he might have. Blushing or insane urges to touch just subtly like the sort of lingering touches and brushes couples display, not grabbing, but still…Brock was uncomfortable being where he actually liked being best, forced up next to Jack. This was what this entire vacation was going to be like.  
“I have spare pants in my travel bag,” said Jack.  
“Really?” asked Brock. “In your carry-on?”  
He needn't have questioned, Jack was always organised and prepared for anything in ways Brock wouldn't think of. It was something to say and a reason to glance up at the baggage rack.  
“Mm-hmm,” Jack pulled his bag down and stepped back into the aisle. “Why don’t you go ahead to the bathroom and I’ll bring it to you. There’s no room and we wouldn't want to be seen going together?” Jack winked at Brock in a way he found both irresistible and, at this point, infuriating.  
“Okay,” said Brock in a neutral tone.He moved out and down the aisle as Jack stepped further the other way in the aisle to let him out.  
Jack smiled brightly at the woman with the sleeping child and replaced the bag in the rack. He grasped the carry on and slung a pair of sweatpants that he had brought for emergencies over his shoulder they were his and Brock would need to roll them up to wear them and followed his friend down the aisle toward the bathrooms. There were two and Brock was hovering in the doorway of one as Jack reached him.

 

 

“Thanks,” he said, reaching out to take the pants. Jack grinned wolfishly, pushed Brock into the tiny cubicle room with a hand over his mouth, and shut the door behind him. He crowded Brock against the wall and blocked the whole space.  
“That’s better, some privacy,” said Jack. “Time for you to loosen up and try to enjoy yourself. We’re on vacation.” He eased his hand away from Brock’s mouth and started unfastening Brock’s damp pants in that moment before the surprise had worn off and the lust kicked in. “So let’s get these off.”  
Jack’s hands were unfastening Brock’s pants…  
“What the fuck are you doing?” hissed Brock, a small frown creasing his forehead. He looked like he wanted to protest, but was stilled at once by Jack’s proximity in the small space.  
Jack took hold of the opened pants and shrugged them down over his hips, following them down so he was then on one knee in front of Brock. Brock followed his face down, still with that small frown, as if something familiar was about to happen, but he was being hesitant.  
Jack looked up with a patient, non-threatening small smile. Like he was dealing with a nervous child.  
“Gonna help,” said Jack simply. “To dry this off.”  
Brock thought that wasn't quite accurate. He needed to change, surely.

 

Already there was a tiny hint of anticipation, Jack kneeling in front of him, his pants and Calvin Kleins around his ankles, lower body exposed… Jack looked up at him with a tiny, mischievous smile and blew suddenly on Brock’s soft dick— – which did feel very slightly damp in the open air, having been under the wet clothing. Brock jumped ever so slightly, making a small sound, and Jack grinned more, blew again, more gently and slowly.  
“…Jack, fuck’s sake we’re in a bathroom,” whispered Brock, hoarsely.  
It was just a tiny bit of common sense and protest because there always had to be with Brock. Always, just a small remark about why they were about to so something beyond the handjobs and grinding and mutual relief after life-threatening situations that Brock always told himself were not ‘gay’. Those things were what soldiers, buddies did for each other… it did not make him a faggot.

 

(Can’t be a faggot in the Army, that’s criminal charges, tell anyone you’ll be out, you keep your mouth shut and be nice and no one will ever know, be nice to my buddies and you get me, baby.)

 

Brock shut down the thoughts that preceded every interaction he had with Jack, who was his best friend, his only real friend—and if Brock found him beautiful and Jack liked to fuck him that was because Brock was such a good friend. It was not gay, that was just something special they had. It was not as if either of them were fairies, they were real men and it was just—it’s not gay or anything—

“Not the first time I've had your ass against the wall in a bathroom,” remarked Jack reasonably. It was not, after all. His fingers walked around Brock’s hips until his hands settled on Brock’s ass and he made his first sudden movement, head lunging forward and taking Brock’s already stiffening dick in his mouth.  
Brock braced himself against the bathroom wall, a shiver of what amounted to nervous anticipation running through him. There was always a tiny hint of danger about Jack. Brock often insisted on it and Jack had frequently provided. Brock gave a nervous half laugh, half gasp, and then hissed as Jack simultaneously slapped his hip sharply and frowned a little up at Brock.  
Jack took his work very seriously. He was always very focussed.  
He started to move his head and use his tongue on the underside of Brock’s dick, changing his angle as it hardened. Brock kept one arm out on the wall and the other hand strayed to Jack’s head, grasping. His fingers find the longer hair at the back of his head, the slicked back remnant of a half mullet hairstyle Jack had. (Brock had offered to re-style Jack’s hair once, keep him more up with the times and Jack had snorted that if being up to date meant looking like a gelled up cockatoo he’d stay ‘half stuck in the eighties’ as Brock had called it.)  
Not that Brock minded Jack’s hair. His fingers at the back of Jack’s neck showed more affection than his voice often expressed in years… but Jack was on a mission. He had tasked himself to de-stress Brock on the flight and he was going to keep on track, whether Brock was already melting against the wall and making pretty noises and stroking his neck hair or not.

 

He was already adorable now, but there was only one way to make him completely pliant and relaxed for the rest of the trip. Jack was achingly hard himself, his fingers kneading that tempting ass of Brock’s. He made himself remove both hands and reach around to his back pocket.  
Brock became aware of the difference in support with Jack’s hands gone and heard a familiar squelch. Jack‘s hands returned with all fingers slick with lube. Two of those big, gun-calloused fingers were at once pushing experimentally at his asshole. It was cold and Brock gasped and gave another nervous giggle, risking another slap, then both his arms flapped out against the wall and he bit back a yelp as those fingers were suddenly inside him.  
Jack released Brock’s dick abruptly and Brock made a disappointed whiny sound that brought another wolfish grin to Jack’s lips.  
“Oh, come on,” hissed Brock.  
“What? You didn't think you’re the only one getting something here, did you?” said Jack in the huskier voice he used when aroused. His fingers were moving inside Brock, wriggling and scissoring sharply. He was not wasting any time. “This is my vacation too. My treat, my fucking credit card, and I make all the effort. You come on my dick or not at all.”  
“…Jesus fucking Christ…” muttered Brock. He was caught in a state between pain and pleasure already with the fingers.it was the place he often liked to be in where Jack was concerned.  
Jack unfolded himself in front of Brock, one hand still inside him to the knuckles and unzipped his own pants, pushed and tugged and released his own straining erection; he had a great deal more self control in these situations than Brock, but yes, he was moving swiftly to deal with his own needs too.  
“W-What you doing now, Jackie?” asked Brock, unnecessarily, as Jack removed his fingers, put both hands under Brock’s ass, bent his own knees and hoisted the other man up the wall, off his feet. Jack grunted and Brock grabbed at Jack’s shoulders, partly for purchase and partly participating in what he knew was going to be one of those rushed, eager-Jack, scrabbling fucks-on-the-go and it was undeniably going to hurt.  
It did. It was this stretching burn and deep, sharp pain and it was fucking awful, just like (be nice to my buddies and you get me, babe) like it often was when they did this in these rushed situations.  
Brock snarled with pain over Jack’s shoulder and was responded to with a surprisingly soft soothing “Shh-sssh, okay,” from his friend.  
It was awkward, cramped, and a weird angle despite what you see in films when people have enthusiastic Mile High Club sex. A lot more awkward than in the storage closet of a quinjet, but the same thrill of knowing someone might be just outside. The last thing Brock would want, in reality, but making it more delicious.  
Brock thrashed, lodged on Jack’s hips. Jack’s knees were still bent to support him and Brock lashed out at the other wall of the cubicle-toilet for purchase to raise himself. Jack straightened up, thrusting a few times and pressing the side of his face against Brock’s.  
He straightened his knees and pushed up and murmured, “Okay, that’s okay, got you… gonna be nice, pookie…” Jack then proceeded to fuck Brock harder, picking up a fast pace and making the most obscene sounds, grunting like a pig.

 

For all his self-control and precise competence and his insular book- reading quiet moods, there was a bit of an animal in Jack. Brock loved it. Jack could be as rough as he liked because he said the sweetest things while he was nailing him. It wasn't gay because Jack couldn't help what he said then. Brock could like Jack calling him his ‘pookie’ and ‘baby’ while Jack was splitting him open, it sometimes felt like, though of course he wasn't. Brock felt quite proud of how he could take Jack’s dick with little or no preparation, though no-one else would see it that way. They’d probably think it was gay.  
Brock’s eyes rolled up in his head as the plane lost of altitude and Jack simultaneously adjusted his stance and was hitting his prostate… Jack and turbulence were just the trick.  
“…Oh…God, Jaaackiee,” Brock practically wailed. He was, thankfully, breathless and came, spasming and bucking on Jack’s braced lower body. He buried his face in Jack’s neck, beginning to go still and mutter wordlessly.  
Jack followed him in less than a minute, Brock orgasming and squirming on him were all it took. Brock was so cute after he came, clingy and affectionate and it mellowed him for an hour or two, usually. When Jack had regained his breath, and he felt his legs would be steady if he moved them at all, he kissed the shell of Brock’s ear and reluctantly eased his friend back onto his feet, muttering encouragingly.  
Brock had now made a sticky mess all over Jack’s shirt and pants, ironically. Jack resumed being practical while Brock stood unsteadily with his back against the wall, flushed and breathing harder than normal.  
“Here…” Jack bent down, brushing Brock in the confined space and fished in the bag for a packet of what were called ‘Dude Wipes,’ one of Brock’s solidly masculine personal care products.  
Brock had put his hand to his ass and glanced at his fingers, rubbing them together to disperse something. Blood, probably. He didn't look concerned, just curious. Jack frowned. There were some things he wanted to discuss,but that was the point of the vacation.  
“Clean yourself up and come back to the seat,” said Jack after briefly wiping himself, removing his shirt by hunching in the cubicle, and shrugging off his pants. He handed Brock the packet of wipes, pulled on sweatpants and another shirt and flushed his own wipes down the little toilet. Back to business, but he gave  
Brock a swift kiss on the forehead and winked at him before he left.

 

Brock rallied, shutting the door behind Jack and cleaning up. He wanted to get back to his seat; he felt nicely tired (and a little sore, but that was normal, wasn't it?) and he wanted to sleep a little, next to Jack.  
Jack looked up and got out of his seat when Brock tapped his shoulder a few minutes later. Brock squeezed into his window seat, settling with a tiny grimace, smiled amiably at Jack before turning his head to look out of the window. Jack followed his gaze, slumping in his seat with his knees drawn up as comfortably as they could be, looking over the edge of the plane wing into the sky and the horizon below them.  
In the bright high altitude light, Brock’s face seemed to glow a little (he was still a little flushed) and the curvature of the earth beneath them was mirrored in the smooth curve of Brock’s cheekbone. Jack felt soothed by the doubly beautiful view and sighed contentedly. There was no reason why this shouldn't be the best vacation he could hope for.


End file.
